


crescendo

by starr_light



Category: Literary RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Scott Fitzgerald plays piano, Too many em dashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starr_light/pseuds/starr_light
Summary: Fitz is a little too forward and Ernest doesn't know the right way to react.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanderidge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanderidge/gifts), [kidology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidology/gifts).



> wherein historical accuracy has been sacrificed for the trope of the thing.

After he reads the letter he walks down to Fitz’s library, brisk and purposeful, ignoring the overly flowy, overly flowery music that becomes louder and louder the closer he gets. He enters the room and shuts the door, with a kind of contained force he doesn’t know the origin of. Fitz stops playing and looks at him, and Ernest is glad about that, kind of.

“No,” he says. He does not mention that on the way here he had at least five more sentences planned out, but he can only remember the first and fourth now - _You have judged me inaccurately_ , and _I do not possess such thoughts in my mind_.

“No,” Fitz repeats, quite dismissively, in an unusually minimalist style to match. He turns back to the piano and resumes that godawful music and Ernest wants to scream. Except--

The light is catching on his face and playing across his skin and Ernest finds himself staring. Again. He watches his fingers gliding over the keys and imagines--

Ernest shifts his gaze decidedly to a spot on the side of the grand piano, dust visible on the unpolished mahogany. He wonders if he could count the grains in the wood. He clears his throat abruptly. Fitz doesn’t look up this time; the song he’s playing is getting louder and Ernest is confused, it used to be so disgustingly sweet and mellow.

So he tries again. “Fitz,” he says, but that doesn’t get a response. “ _Fitz_.”

Still nothing. Has the man ruined his own hearing? he thinks, a bit irrationally.

“Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald.” It comes out awkward and too formal. But he finally looks up, and Ernest has his two disjointed sentences on the tip of his tongue, _You have judged me inaccurately I do not possess such thoughts in my mind_ , when--

“My dear Ernest Hemingway,” Fitz says back at him, smiling like he knows something Ernest doesn’t.

“You have judged me inaccurately,” he blurts out.

Fitz raises his eyebrows.

“I do not possess such thoughts in my mind.”

Confusion registers on Fitz’s face. Understandable, Ernest thinks, and curses his memory. Then Fitz takes a breath. “I see you’ve read my letter.”

“I have, and--” _you have judged me inaccurately I do not possess such thoughts in my mind_ \--

“But we shall not discuss such matters now.” Fitz cuts him off. “You’ve interrupted quite a beautiful piece, you see, and I must return to it.” He looks at Ernest expectantly, waiting for an answer. Ernest resists the urge to sigh a very long sigh.

“As you wish,” he mutters, sarcasm seeping into his tone, implying very well that he does not _care_ what Fitzgerald _wishes_. He stares at the floor.

“Ernest,” Fitz says. “Come sit with me.” Ernest hesitates for just a moment too long.

“My dear friend,” Fitz says, and oh, how Ernest hates that particular word in that particular moment-- “This piano bench is quite long, no? You shall not even have to fear accidentally touching me.”

Ernest walks from the doorway to where Fitz is, long strides, as confident as he can make them. His shoes sound soft thuds on the floor. He sits down next to Fitz, considers making himself small. Crossing his legs and placing his hands in his lap. He does the opposite.

Fitz looks at him strangely, but that’s nothing new, Ernest thinks, even though he can’t find comfort in the familiarity this time around. “Go on then,” he prompts, tilting his head in the direction of the keyboard.

Fitz regains his composure quick. “As you wish.”

As the music starts up again Ernest’s mind betrays him and his thoughts tangle. What does Fitz mean, saying things like _You shall not even have to fear accidentally touching me_? This will not do - the letter, the mischievous smiles, the repeating his own words back to him, the _You shall not even have to fear accidentally touching me_ , the presumption, the mind games. He and Fitz are both men, after all. And Ernest is quite good at being one.

He focuses all his attention on Fitz, now, almost defiantly, daring his mind to - how does Fitz put it? - _possess such thoughts_ , and feeling quite confident in his inability to do so. Fitz’s fingers are flying, blurring black and white and pale peach, because some son of a bitch apparently decided to add arpeggios to this already horrid composition, and Fitz’s fingers look so very slender, so very delicate, so very agile--

He allows his mind to wander some more - his imagination has never been lacking, he knows - and he _wonders_ what it might feel like to--

“I do not fear accidentally touching you.” The words pour out of his mouth unexpectedly and he pretends he does not stumble on them. He does not know why he says it at this particular moment, except that he must put an end to all this - he struggles for the right word - _coquettishness_ will do - right now. If anything, it is unbecoming on his friend, and himself, as well.

Fitz stops mid-chord. He looks up at him in surprise. “What did you just say?”

“You know what I said--”

“I do _not_ know what you said, dear Ernest, or I would not be asking--”

“Please do not use that word.”

There’s that same shocked innocence on his face as he opens his mouth to speak. “Surely--”

“-- _Surely_ you know, then, what _you_ are saying, my dear, _dear_ Fitzgerald,” Ernest interrupts, suddenly filled with a kind of soft, slow-burning rage. “You have quite a way with words, do you not? _Gatsby_ may not have received much critical acclaim, but I have read it. I have read your drafts and I have made my comments and you have made your edits and I must say that I am quite fond of the final version.”

He gets up, paces, and looks down at Fitz. “I find it very hard to believe that you do not know what you are doing,” he says casually. He delights in his calm, even tone. “You can pretend you do not understand me, but you cannot pretend you do not understand yourself. First the letter, and now all--” he gestures vaguely at the air in front of him-- “this!” Fitz is looking back at him, green eyes wide. “You are rather capable at creating fictional worlds.  _I_ would know - much better than any critic. Do not think me so dense that I will believe you to be innocent after all else that your mind has accomplished.” He lets out a long, shaky breath he did not know he had been holding and crosses his arms in front of his chest, daring Fitz, still sitting at the piano, to respond. He stands up a little taller.

“My dear--”

“-- _Ernest_ ,” he interjects coldly. “My name, please, if you would be so kind.”

“Ernest,” Fitz concedes. He thinks before he speaks again. “I do not think you dense. I think you quite clever. I think of you as a good friend. I apologize for what I may have implied.” He says it with a gentleness Ernest knows he does not deserve and a conciseness he can appreciate. The rage still bubbles, though, right below the surface, and he stays silent.

“Ernest,” Fitz says again. “I do not mean to upset you--”

“I made my feelings quite clear--” The words are short and clipped. Defensive, too, if he is honest with himself.

“That you did. and I said we would discuss, after--”

“Ah, yes. Do not let me stop you. It is a beautiful piece and there is nothing I would like more than for you to continue; it makes me want to blow my brains out but that is, of course, no matter.” He looks at Fitz in a certain sort of way, and Fitz seems as if he is trying not to laugh.

Ernest allows himself a small smile and the rage inside him simmers down, gradually. Fitz grins and says from the piano, “Alright then. I propose a compromise - I will stop playing this song if you agree to sit down next to me and let me explain it to you.”

“A compromise,” Ernest repeats.

“Quite right, my d-- Ernest.”

“I cede,” he says simply, afraid of saying too much. “Begin.”

“You won’t have a seat?” Fitz keeps his tone light, on purpose.

“I don’t think--”

Fitz frowns. Compromises, Ernest reminds himself, because it is only fair.

“I think--” He glances down at Fitz. He’s not frowning anymore.

“I think I shall,” he finishes, and walks over again to the piano bench. Fitz scoots a little to the left to make room, Ernest sits down, and then they are three centimeters apart. One. Two. Three--

Fitz touches his arm and Ernest bristles and then talks himself down - they’re friends, not-- not _lovers_. What kind of man would he be, shying away from an inadvertent brush of another man’s fingertips? After all his successes in the outdoors and the boxing ring--

“I thought you said you did not mind accidental touches.”

“I do not,” Ernest says stiffly. He resolves to be better.

“Very well then.” Fitz clears his throat. “You know Schumann.” He phrases the question like a statement and Ernest nods, once. “And his wife, Clara?” Ernest nods a second time.

“They were in love and he wrote this song for her.”

“How romantic,” Ernest comments dryly.

“It’s an exquisite song, Ernest,” Fitz scolds. “There are lyrics, too--” he reaches up and grabs the sheet music-- “I have them here, see.”

“I’m sure they are very nice,” Ernest says, as discouraging as possible, because he’s sat through Fitz’s long, windy analyses in the past.

Instead Fitz looks pleased. “They are. Now--”

 _Now_ would be a good time to distract himself, Ernest thinks. So he scans the room, takes inventory for the sake of wasting time. There are books on the bookshelf, too many to count. Two chairs, cushioned and upholstered, against the opposite wall. There’s a coffee table between them, unused. Then the bench he’s sitting on, his left leg three centimeters away from Fitz’s right--

He pushes that thought aside and resumes. Last is the piano, which Fitz is currently leaning on. Ernest can’t hear the words he’s saying - that was the point of taking inventory, after all - but Fitz’s face is animated; his eyes are bright. Ernest shifts to face him more directly and nods as if he’s been listening the whole time.

His friend has quite the nice profile, he decides. The new haircut is not the most flattering, but it suits him, at least. And the way his chin juts out a little bit - it’s charming. Or it could be, in due time. _Charming_. Ernest turns that word over and over in his brain.

Fitz looks at him expectantly. Ernest tries the sentence, “That’s interesting,” and punctuates it with a smile, and it seems to appease him, because he keeps on talking, and his lips--

His lips are thin. They are thin and a soft kind of pink. Against his will a thought forms, about what it might be like to kiss them - not that _he_ would ever want to, of course. It is only that this is the first time Ernest has ever really looked at them. It is a natural thing, for a man to be curious. Except--

Except Fitz is looking at him now, a stranger expression than usual on his face. “Are you quite alright?” he asks.

Immediately Ernest breaks his gaze away from Fitz’s mouth. He instead focuses on his friend’s eyes. “Quite,” he answers. “Please--” Ernest begins, before realizing he has forgotten the topic of discussion at hand. So he settles for something general. “Please continue.”

Fitz does, gladly, and Hemingway turns back to his own thoughts.

He is admiring the curve of Fitz’s nose when he is suddenly interrupted by Fitz speaking harshly at him. “Ernest, I shall not do this if you are distracted.”

“I am sorry--” he replies, on impulse, to the unexpected outburst.

“If you were _sorry_ you would pay some attention, Ernest.” Fitz takes a breath and lets that statement sink in. Ernest prepares for the outburst to last a little longer. “I realize it may not be the most exciting subject for _you_ , but it was a compromise. As compromises tend to go, both parties end up a little unsatisfied,” he says wisely. “You have been distracted--”

“I have not--” Ernest interrupts, knowing full well that he is lying through his teeth. He prefers it to admitting the truth, however, that he had been distracted by--

“My friend, do not deny it,” Fitz returns, firmly, and that is the end of the matter. “You have been distracted by _what_ , I do not even know; there is hardly anything in this room other than--”

“Yourself,” Ernest mutters, quietly, if only to cut Fitz off before he can say anything more.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yourself,” he repeats louder, and matter-of-factly, although he does not know why. He does not elaborate.

Fitz is caught off guard, but he closes his eyes for a few seconds, opens them, and continues. “Yes, myself. That is correct,” he says quickly. “You see what I mean? There is nothing in this room and you are still distracted.”

And so it goes, on and on and on. Ernest can’t stand this anymore, the word _distraction_ or some variant of it-- _distracted_ , _distract_ , _distractedly_ , Ernest’s brain promptly supplies-- coming up every few seconds.

“--I simply cannot do this,” Fitz is saying, “if you are _distracted_ \--” and at that point it’s simply become too much, and Ernest wants nothing more than silence and peace of mind--

“And what if I am distracted by you?” Ernest hears himself say. The interruption is loud and clear and the room seems to shift without warning. He wonders if the floor has ever felt so hard, so impossible to sink through, and if there really have never been any hiding places in this library - the bookshelves are straight up against the walls. The room is silent and he thinks that at least he has gotten what he wanted.

“If you--” Fitz’s voice is quiet but it still breaks through the silence and it tilts up like a question, mild confusion registering on his face.

Ernest looks away. He will not repeat himself, nor will he clarify his statement. He patiently waits for Fitz to talk again.

Instead he feels a hand on his arm, heat radiating through the sleeve of his shirt. He tenses. He forces himself to relax. Deep breath in and deep breath out, but not so deep that Fitz can notice.

“Ernest,” Fitz says, tone teasing. “You must tell me if my hearing has failed me.”

Ernest nods a curt, short nod.

“But I believe--” Fitz closes his eyes for a second, again, as if to ground himself-- “I believe that you--” All of a sudden the teasing tone is gone and slowly Ernest recognizes the power he has held over Fitz this whole time.

He considers this, while Fitz is trying to form a coherent sentence. Has he _really_ \--

Yes, he concludes, after he has played back through all the events that have transpired. His logic has always been the one thing about himself he trusts and the realization makes him feel like he must take responsibility for what he has caused. He fancies himself to be a man capable of such noble deeds. So he goes back on his word and repeats himself.

“I said--” and it’s as loud and clear as the first time-- “that I have been distracted by you, my dear.” He tacks on the last bit as an afterthought. A tiny rush of exhilaration runs through him and he understands, now, the game that Fitz has been playing.

Fitz’s grasp on his arm tightens ever so slightly, but with a renewed confidence he speaks again. “By my dashing good looks, I presume.” He smirks and Ernest thinks what fun it is, to play this game with someone else.

“You may take my statement however you would like, dear,” Ernest replies.

It is only after a few moments of silence that Ernest realizes that Fitz’s hand is still on his arm. It's an almost comforting weight, really. Ernest wonders if he should speak again, or if that would be against the rules of their game.

Fitz’s gaze travels from Ernest’s eyes down his arm to where his hand is resting. He stares at it for a while. Ernest watches him stare. Then Fitz looks up, making eye contact again. He has a determined sort of look, jaw set and mouth in a pretty, pretty pink line. “You do not fear me accidentally touching you?” And the room shifts again and Ernest thinks that he would like a bit of warning, next time, while Fitz’s eyes are searching his face for any kind of answer.

Ernest reacquaints himself with his surroundings and says, “I think that problem was only in your own mind, my dear.”

Fitz hums. “Is that so?” He unwraps his hand from Ernest’s arm and his fingers crawl up and up and up, cautiously, and Ernest’s breath catches in his throat. Fitz is watching him carefully, and moving horribly slowly, and Ernest wants to yell at him to get on with it but he of all people knows that good things happen only to those who wait.

So he sits there, patiently, as Fitz’s hand moves to the small of his back, leaving lines of heat on his arms through his shirt and suddenly the room feels very, very small, as Fitz leans in closer and closer and closer, to the point that Ernest can see his eyelashes, and there are _so many_ \--

Then it hits Ernest, exactly what is going to happen, and for a split second he thinks to put a stop to all this, immediately--

But then Fitz’s lips are on his. Thin and soft pink, he remembers vaguely.

And a second later they are gone. It was a quick and innocent kiss but Ernest feels lightheaded. Fitz is staring at him again but this time there is light in his eyes. Ernest thinks that at this point in their game it would be alright to say something.

“That was an accident?” Ernest does not appreciate how breathy his voice sounds but decides that it will have to do, for now.

Fitz smiles a small smile. “It very much was an accident, my dear,” he says, warm and gentle and soft. He hesitates. “I take it that you liked it?”

Ernest doesn’t trust himself to talk normally so he takes Fitz’s other hand, interlocks their fingers. Fitz smiles again.

Then they both lean in. The distance between them closes and Ernest counts the centimeters. Three. Two. One--

They meet in the middle.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://lennon-tea.tumblr.com) if you want to come & talk!!


End file.
